Dreaming in Color
by lastincurableromantic
Summary: The Tenth Doctor discovers that he can control a telepathic link between himself and his meta-crisis self. Dark and angsty, rated M for a reason. Ten/Rose, Tentoo/Rose
1. Part 1

**a/n: Angst, angst, angst. And the rating is for a reason.**

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**Dreaming in Color**

**Part 1**

Breathing heavily, the Doctor stared as Rose reached down between his legs and cupped his balls in her left hand, lightly squeezing and stroking. At the same time, the fingers of her other hand gently grasped his shaft and slowly stroked him tip to base and back again, taking care to flick the head with her thumb with a feather-light touch every time her hand moved back up. It was exquisite torture, her touching him this way, almost but not quite what he wanted, no, needed her to do.

He was reclining on the bed, propped up by pillows against the headboard, legs spread wide with her kneeling between his thighs. She was naked, magnificently naked, perfection itself in her nudity, a goddess with golden hair. He had always known she was lovely, and he had realized how truly beautiful she was on that first trip to Cardiff, but that was nothing compared to how exquisite she was in all of her glory.

Lifting his hips off the bed, he pressed himself into her hand in an effort to increase the pressure of her touch, but instead of grasping more firmly, she loosened her grip even further and gently traced patterns on him with the tip of her finger. He groaned in protest.

"Rose, please…" He realized he was begging, but he couldn't bring himself to care. With a wicked grin, she returned to stroking him, and he sighed in relief.

Before he could ask for more from her, harder, faster, something, she bent down and slowly traced his length with her tongue. She pressed her lips to him in a gentle kiss and followed it with touching the slit with the tip of her tongue. He couldn't suppress a moan.

"Oh, Rose," he whimpered. And then she took him in her mouth.

She swirled her tongue around the head, paying special attention to his frenulum because she knew what effect it had on him. His eyes involuntarily rolled back in his head and his hips jerked in a thrust he couldn't quite stop.

Her hair fell forward and lightly, teasingly brushed against his bare skin as she took him deeper. Her mouth was so marvelously hot, so brilliantly wet, he thought. She began to move, and for a moment he was overwhelmed with the feel of her mouth gently sucking as her hands massaged and stroked him. His head fell back against the pillows and he closed his eyes for a moment, giving himself over to the sensations of tongue and fingers and lips.

It was so good. So incredibly good. If he had been able to think, he wouldn't have thought it possible, but he hardened even further with her every touch. He knew he was getting close, but he tried to hold himself back, in part because he didn't want it to be over so soon, and in part because he knew from experience the longer he could hold off, the more powerful the end would be.

He lifted his head and forced his eyes open. It was the most erotic thing he had ever seen, her hair framing her face as she kissed up his length. Then she glanced up and met his eyes, and he changed his mind. No, seeing her look at him with love and desire, his shaft disappearing between her lips, that was the most erotic thing he had ever seen.

She began to move faster. She knew him so well; it was exactly the way he liked, kneading and stroking, sucking and licking, her hands moving to enhance the feel of her mouth, and he could no longer hold back.

Muttering an oath, his balls drew up and his stomach muscles tightened. Wave upon wave of pleasure overtook him as he began to pulse into her mouth. Finally when he was finished she released him and crawled up his body. She kissed him, and he opened his mouth, tasting himself on her.

"Rose Tyler, I love you," he whispered against her lips.

And then forced himself out of his telepathic trance.

He came back to himself, lying alone in bed, his hand still around his softening shaft and his stomach and chest covered in his come. And he felt vaguely disgusted with himself, having again telepathically watched as his duplicate self had sex with Rose. And more than watched. Through the telepathic link, he could see everything his other self could see, feel everything he could feel.

The first time had been unintentional. He had been unbearably lonely one night and in his sleep had reached out telepathically, accidentally touching the other's mind in the parallel universe without realizing it.

He awoke and found himself sticky from what he had initially thought was just a wet dream. Then he felt deeply ashamed as he realized the truth. He had intruded on and interjected himself into a profoundly private moment, albeit unintentionally.

The second time it had happened, he knew exactly what was going on. He knew he should break the telepathic bond, but he couldn't bring himself to do it. He could feel Rose make love to his other self, and it felt like she was making love to him. It had been everything he had longed for since before his regeneration years earlier.

While they had been traveling together, despite the hand holding, despite the hugs, despite even the occasional chaste kiss, they had never been intimate. He wasn't so clueless that he didn't realize she wanted them to be truly together, but he had never allowed himself to take that next step no matter how much they both wanted to. And they both wanted to. The longer they traveled together, though, the more he had felt that crossing that threshold in their relationship was inevitable. So many times he had almost crossed that step: while comforting her after Mickey left, while she had comforted him after he had almost lost her at Queen Elizabeth's inauguration, as they held one another in the aftermath of Krop Tor. But despite the prophesy of the Beast, despite the feeling that a storm was coming, he had wanted to believe that he could protect her, that they had time.

But then he had lost her at Canary Wharf.

Years later, when he had realized she was coming back, he knew he wouldn't be able to hold himself back anymore. If by some miracle they survived the Daleks, he told himself, the first thing he would do was tell her he loved her. And the second thing he would do was show her he loved her.

But then the meta-crisis had happened, and he knew that for her sake he needed to give her up.

He had never stopped loving Rose, though, never stopped longing for her touch, and so that first time he wasn't surprised to dream about her. That first year after Canary Wharf he had dreamed about her every time he slept. Martha had never known that he was going to bed far more often than he needed, to pretend that she wasn't gone and to imagine the hand urgently stroking his cock was really hers. And afterwards to fall into a deep sleep, dreaming that she was beside him in bed and not a universe away.

After losing her the second time, he had found that the only thing better than dreaming about her was feeling her through the telepathic link. It was like dreaming in color, vivid and intense and beautiful. But it was better than a dream. While linked to his other self, he could see her again, feel her in his arms, feel her lips on his. Feel her surround him as he penetrated her. Hear her voice as she came. And when she called his name, he could imagine it was him that she meant. It was absolutely intoxicating. But he knew it was wrong, and after intruding on them the second time, he told himself he was never going to do it again.

But the ecstasy he had felt, with the accompanying rush of the Time Lord equivalent of dopamine, testosterone, norepinephrine, oxytocin, and serotonin, was truly addicting in the literal sense of the word.

In an effort to fight the addiction, he forced himself to stay awake for weeks on end. He went to dangerous planets and put himself in dangerous situations merely as a distraction. But when he finally had to succumb to the need for sleep, his resistance was lowered and he reached out mentally to his other self in hopes of repeating the experience.

It was being a voyeur in the worst possible way.

He repeated it again and again, with closer and closer intervals between each time, a drug addict looking for a hit. He began consciously craving the high of orgasm in a way he had never done before. But only with Rose. He longed to feel Rose's touch and hear her voice cry out as she came undone.

He knew it was counterproductive, seeking out this contact. He reminded himself time and again that he needed to stop. He needed to get on with his life and allow them to get on with theirs. He needed to let her go. But instead, unable and unwilling to stop himself, he did it again and again and again.


	2. Part 2

**a/n: Very adult and very dark. Slight spoilers for Prisoner of the Daleks by Trevor Baxendale.**

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**Part 2**

His song was ending. That phrase had been following him for years. But now he could feel the storm approaching, the noose around his neck tightening. His time truly was growing short. Time Lords could spend thousands of years in one regeneration, and he had had less than six in this one. Not to mention this incarnation had been created out of love for her, and if he regenerated he'd lose that ever so tenuous connection.

But he didn't know if the prophesy meant that this regeneration was ending or his entire life. Either way, he wasn't ready.

But at other times he wasn't sure he cared. He had lost so much. Sometimes he just wanted the pain to be over. He was becoming more and more reckless, even for him, pushing himself into more and more dangerous situations, daring, almost begging someone to put himself out of his misery. He needed someone to pull him back from the edge, but there was no one: not Mickey, not Martha, not Jack. Not Donna. And not Rose. Especially not Rose.

He needed Rose. From the very first, Rose had trusted him, had believed in him. Had stood up to him when he was wrong. Had promised to stay with him forever. Had loved him unconditionally. Oh, how he needed her.

Particularly on a day like today, when yet again he had almost lost the TARDIS. When yet again he had encountered Daleks. People had been killed. He had been imprisoned and tortured. And yet no matter how many times they were defeated, the Daleks always managed to survive. Always came back.

Oh, why couldn't they stay dead? Why were they still there when his planet was gone, when Rose was gone?

He ran his hands through his hair as he paced back and forth in the console room. The elation he had felt upon surviving, upon finding the TARDIS again had vanished, had disappeared as the adrenalin had begun to leave his system. Now he was left feeling restless, bereft. And alone.

He needed a distraction, he decided, and crossed to the console. Time to go someplace new. Somewhere he had never been before. He began flipping switches–and then stopped.

No, he thought as he sank down onto the jump seat. That's not what he needed.

But what he needed was wrong.

But that had never stopped him before. And he knew it wouldn't now.

With a sense of inevitability, he stood and began to walk out of the room, jerking his tie off as he went.

Once in his room, he removed his jacket and shirt, folding them neatly and laying them along with his tie across the back of a chair. Trainers next, and then his trousers, again folded neatly. Socks and tee shirt in a hamper in the en suite. His pants were next.

Tented as they were, they were more difficult to remove. He was already more than half hard in anticipation. When he realized they were already damp with a spot of pre-come, he finally jerked them off and tossed them carelessly on the floor.

He crossed to his bed and, in what had become almost a ritual, he carefully folded the duvet back. He began to climb into bed, and then stopped himself. Today he needed one more thing.

He pulled open the bottom drawer of his nightstand. That was his Rose drawer. He still had her bedroom, even visited it on occasion, well, more than just on occasion, but here were the items he wanted closest to him. On top was a photo album, filled with photos she had taken on trips from their earliest days together. But there was one she hadn't taken. He quickly leafed through the album and pulled it out.

It was a photo taken by Jack of Rose lying on the beach, sunbathing. Her body glistened with suntan lotion, and in the bright light of the sun, her dark cream bikini blended in with the color of her skin, making her appear nude. As soon as he had found out about it, his previous self had immediately confiscated it, but he had kept it next to his bed ever since.

As he stared at it, his breath caught and his eyes glistened. She was so beautiful.

But the photo wasn't what he was looking for.

He placed the album on the nightstand, and the photo on top of it, and then began to search the drawer again, only stopping when he felt the soft scrap of cotton under his fingertips.

He shouldn't have this. What would Rose think if she knew he had retrieved her laundry from Jackie's flat and kept this, of all things, in his bedroom?

He felt a wave of shame and disgust which he quickly shoved down and ignored as he held the cloth to his face. He closed his eyes and inhaled deeply. The sense of smell, far more than the other senses, was the most closely linked to memory, and this, the most personal of items, smelled of Rose far more than her jacket or tee shirt did, items he also kept in the drawer.

The scent of Rose surrounding him, he lay down on the bed and inhaled again, this time with his mouth slightly open and tongue curled to the back of his teeth in an effort to heighten his senses.

He was struck by a sudden impulse to rub her knickers on his impossibly hard cock, an impulse he knew he had to fight. If he did that, he'd replace her scent with his own. No, he couldn't risk that. But he couldn't stop his tongue from darting out for the tiniest taste. And with that, he took himself in hand and put himself in a telepathic trance.

She lay spread out in front of him, her skin flushed pink with arousal and her blonde hair spread across her pillow, while he lay on his belly between her legs, placing open mouthed kisses up the inside of her thigh.

"Your skin is so soft," he murmured, taking a moment to caress it with his lips.

He kissed his way upward. As he stopped a moment to place a kiss on her outer lips, he looked up and their eyes met. There was something in the way she looked at him... and for a second he wondered if she could see him in the eyes of his duplicate. But then she closed her eyes and her head fell backwards and the moment was lost.

He shifted so her leg draped over his shoulder, opening her more fully to him, and he ran his tongue up her slit. She clutched at the sheets and moaned, and he moaned with her at the explosion of her taste on his tongue. It was salty and sweet and warm and gloriously Rose. It was addicting. Nothing was like this. Nothing in the universe, any universe, could compare to this.

Why had they never done this before?

He felt a flash of confusion pass through the other Doctor's mind, and he quickly tamped down his thoughts. Of course the other him and Rose had already done this, and by allowing his own thoughts to intrude into the other's mind, he risked being caught. It was vital that he not be discovered spying on them.

After a moment he felt the other relax, and he gave himself over to the sensations the other was experiencing. The feel of her curls on his lips as he pressed a kiss gently onto her mound. The softness and taste as he circled her inner lips with his tongue only to bury it deep inside her.

"Oh, God," she murmured and the sound of her voice went straight to his groin. He thrust his hips forward against the mattress for a little relief.

She lifted her hips upwards, allowing him greater access, but to his disappointment, instead of taking advantage of it his counterpart began to back away. Rose whimpered in protest. He almost objected as well–he wasn't nearly done exploring her with his mouth–and then he caught himself; he wasn't supposed to be here. But then to his relief he found that the other Doctor was just trying to readjust his position, to lean on one elbow, allowing his other hand the freedom to caress her.

He trailed his fingers along the path his lips had taken, softly touching inner thigh before moving to cup the firm curve of her arse. He paused there, stroking and gently squeezing before moving on, this time to circle her opening with his fingers before dipping one inside. When he didn't continue she shifted impatiently.

"Doctor, please," she pleaded, and he felt his mouth twist into a smirk.

Slowly he pressed deeper into her opening, withdrew and pressed again, stroking her inner walls, first gently and then more firmly with each pass. She nodded and sighed. With that encouragement, he added a second finger, slowly stretching her and moving slightly faster.

As her breathing quickened, he lowered his head again and, replacing his hand with his mouth, began to kiss her in earnest. He traced her opening with the tip of his tongue, feeling a fresh rush of lust at the flavor of her. He took his time, savoring the experience, licking and sucking, his tongue dipping inside her and then darting out again to tease her clit. She jerked forward, pressing into his mouth, and he moved his hand to her hips, holding her down while he continued. When she stilled, he moved his hand downwards again, stroking her with his fingers while his mouth surrounded her clit, gently sucking on her sensitive flesh.

"Yes," she panted.

As her muscles tightened around his moving fingers, she wrapped her legs around him, and he sped up, licking and sucking, rubbing and curling on her inner walls, rutting against the mattress in time with his mouth and fingers. She cried out as she came and, unable to wait any longer, he instantly moved upward, thrusting into her once, twice, coming himself before the tremors had completely left her body.

With that, the Doctor quickly broke away from them, finding himself in his own bedroom, panting, hearts pounding, his hand moving, gripping, tightening, until he cried out with his own release, his voice echoing in the empty TARDIS.

And when he came back to himself, he swore he would never do it again.

Knowing full well he was lying.


	3. Part 3

**Part 3**

Trouble was only the bits in-between. That's what he had said once upon a time. There were days of exploring, of sightseeing, of new planets and new people, new air to breathe and new ground underfoot. Days filled with laughter. Days where everybody lived.

And then there were days like today. Days where everybody died. Where, despite his best efforts, despite how hard he tried to prevent it, everybody died.

This time it had been on a spaceship. A deep space vessel full of human colonists destined for a type M planet in the lesser Magellanic Cloud.

It had been part of a convoy, one of the first convoys of its type to leave Mutter's Spiral, and it had gotten off course, lost in the dead zone between the two galaxies.

When he had arrived the crew was having a problem with the ship's engines. It was just a simple problem, an energy drain into the surrounding space. It was an easy fix. They just needed repairs to their particle scoop, a new power converter, a jump start from the TARDIS, and a point in the right direction. Piece of cake. He could do it with his eyes closed.

But it was too late. The oxygen scrubbers had been affected by the power drain, and the damage to them had thrown off the amount of breathable oxygen in the air. It was killing them, had been slowly killing them even before he had arrived, but since he was a Time Lord and needed less oxygen than they did it hadn't affected him. He hadn't even noticed there was a problem. He had been distracted by the engine problems, but while he fixed the engines the colonists were dying. Inert gas asphyxiation. It was relatively painless so they weren't complaining. And he had been so busy he hadn't noticed the oxygen concentration in the air was off or that the colonists were beginning to fall into unconsciousness.

They had been dying, and he hadn't even noticed.

Once he had realized there was a problem, he had tried to save them. Done everything he could. Pumped oxygen in from the TARDIS and repaired the scrubbers. But it had been too late.

He was the Doctor. He should have been able to save them. Should have been able to heal them. But they had all died. All of them. Every single one. Four hundred and twenty-six men, women and children. The colony ship that had been full of life had become a tomb.

After he had returned to the TARDIS and put it in the Vortex, he sank onto the jump seat and rested his head in his hands. Sometimes he was so tired. Tired of the deaths. Tired of failing.

Tired of how empty the TARDIS felt.

Tired of being alone.

Just… tired.

Maybe he was getting old.

Perhaps a Time Lord lives too long.

A sharp pain began behind his left eye and spread outward, the beginnings of a migraine. Wincing, he rubbed his eye and temple, willing the headache away, and the pain slowly receded to a dull ache.

On days like today the TARDIS felt more empty than usual. It hadn't always been this way, he reminded himself. For so many years he had had traveling companions. Jack and Martha. Sarah Jane and Mickey. And, further back, Charley and Fitz and Ace and Mel. Alistair and Harry and Jo.

Donna and Jamie and Zoe who could no longer remember him.

And there were so many others. So many people. And so many who offered to come with now. Christina had asked. That UNIT scientist Malcolm, his number one fan, would come in a heartbeat. But his life was too dangerous. They were better off without him.

But was he protecting them? Or protecting himself from hearts ache when they inevitably left?

Besides, they all had someone. Someone else. Even Rose…

No, mustn't think about Rose.

Mustn't think about Rose, who had wanted to stay. Who had promised him forever. Who had even crossed universes to be with him. And who would have stayed if he hadn't manipulated her into leaving.

No. Mustn't think about Rose.

Rose was happy with the other him. He had seen enough of their lives together to be completely convinced of that. And that's what he wanted for her, for her to be happy.

That's why he had let her go, after all.

Sleep, that's what he needed. When was the last time he had slept? Weeks ago? A month or two? He didn't remember. He'd feel better if he got some sleep. If he were rested, he could ignore the loneliness. Pretend it didn't exist. Tamp it down so far that it wouldn't exist.

Lost in his thoughts, to his surprise he suddenly found himself in his bedroom. He didn't even remember leaving the console room. He must be tired. He pulled some pyjamas out of a drawer and began to undress, folding and laying his jacket and trousers neatly on the chair by the cupboard, placing his shirt and socks in the hamper in the en suite, but when he began to remove his underpants he realized that despite how tired he was, he was more than half hard. It was an automatic, anticipatory response to where he was. When was the last time he had gone to sleep without touching himself, without wanking to thoughts of Rose?

Years probably.

He had occasionally—alright, more than occasionally—done it before he had lost her. Before he had regenerated even.

But he seemed to do it all the time now. And not just wanking. For months now he always did it while telepathically linked to his part human self. And the last few times he had almost been caught. He had been so caught up in his own gratification he had accidentally lowered his mental guards enough that the other Doctor would have sensed him if he hadn't been so focused on his own orgasm.

But he didn't need to link to the other him in order to self-pleasure.

But he shouldn't be doing it at all.

But what was the harm? Humans did it all the time. Had practically developed it into a fine art.

But he wasn't human. He didn't need this. As a Time Lord he could control his very physiology. He could certainly control this.

But it always relaxed him. Allowed him to sleep. And despite being utterly exhausted, he was too keyed up to sleep.

Regardless of what he did, his body needed to sleep, he told himself, pulling on his night clothes. It had been too long. But just sleep. That's all. Nothing more.

He climbed into bed and closed his eyes. And without thinking slipped his hand inside his pyjama bottoms and slowly began to stroke himself.

He should stop. He didn't need to do this.

Yes, he did. After a day like today, yes, he did.

The pace was slow, languid. He stopped at the top of a stroke to circle the tip with his thumb, spreading the moisture there around the head, and drew in a long, slow breath. He held it for a moment and then exhaled with a low, quiet sound as he resumed the motion. This was good, he thought. Very good. This was what he had needed.

But it wasn't enough.

No, it had to be enough.

He thought about his drawer, all the contents, all the items in it that had belonged to her. Photos. Mementos of their travels. Her purple top. A lacy pink bra. And the matching knickers.

Or her room. He could go to her room. He hadn't allowed himself to visit it in a while. It was filled with her belongings. More photos, mementos, clothes. Her hairbrush. Her makeup.

Her bed.

Her sheets, blankets and pillows, all which still smelled of her.

He could lie in her bed, his head on her pillow, smelling her while touching himself, imagining she was the one touching him. That it was her hand on him. That her mouth was on him. That he was buried inside her.

But that's not what he wanted. Craved.

He didn't just want imagination.

He wanted her.

He needed her.

Perhaps if he just saw her. What harm could it do? He wouldn't need to watch them again. Just see her.

Yes. Yes, just to see her. See her face, her blonde hair and whiskey-colored eyes.

No. It wouldn't be enough. He knew just seeing her face wouldn't be enough.

Perhaps just a peek of them together. He knew how to narrow his focus, trace them to a time that they were alone, that they were… being intimate.

Yes, just a glimpse, just a tiny one, he thought, trying to convince himself he could limit the telepathic contact to only that. He didn't need to do more, he told himself. Didn't have to watch them. Didn't have to experience it with his other self. He just needed a glimpse. And with that thought, he put himself into a telepathic trance, seeking out his other self at a time he was with Rose.

But when the link was established, instead of seeing her, he saw his reflection, wearing a maroon tee and blue pinstripes, staring at him in the mirror.


	4. Part 4

**Part 4**

Stunned at the unexpected sight, for several long, nerve wracking moments the Doctor stared in the mirror in front of him, and an oh, so familiar face stared back. His dark brown eyes, his long thin nose, his slightly wonky ear, his freckles. His face, but not his. His reflection's hair was longer and sideburns slightly wider, and he was badly in need of a shave. Something he had evidently been about to do as shaving cream and a razor, as well as a toothbrush and toothpaste, sat next to a sink directly in front of him.

The Doctor could see in the reflection that they were in a bathroom with a large jetted tub and a separate, glass enclosed shower. Although it was not up to TARDIS standards, it was a fairly stylish bathroom actually, and he realized that in all the times he had been telepathically linked to his other self, he had been so focused on Rose that he had never noticed their surroundings before. Were they at the mansion, he wondered. Their own flat?

As he stared at himself—as they stared at each other?—the Doctor wondered whether the other knew he was here. He couldn't sense the other's thoughts at all, as if they were behind a brick wall, tightly shielded. As were his own, he reminded himself. The mere fact he couldn't sense the other mentally could mean nothing, but he should withdraw before he got caught.

"Are you going to be in here all day?"

He turned sharply to the sound of Rose's voice. She stood in the doorway, only wearing an off-white lacy vest and matching knickers. His other self quickly turned back to the mirror after seeing her, but even that brief glimpse of her had been enough to cause his own breath to catch and hearts rate to increase back on the TARDIS.

"Just finishing up," the other Doctor said, and as always due to the link it was as if he had said it himself.

"I have to get ready, too, you know," she told him, "and I haven't even showered yet. Although…" Her demeanor changed. She grinned at him, her tongue touching her upper teeth, and when she spoke again, it was in a low, seductive tone. "You _could_ join me."

"I've already showered," he answered.

"So? It wouldn't be the first time you showered twice."

She had crossed over to him and was resting her chin on his shoulder, and he could see out of the corner of his eye she was giving him _the look_. The look he always caved in to. She looked up at him and batted her eyelashes and gave him a wide smile. Not to mention she was clearly visible in the mirror. From her blonde hair down to her upper thighs. The snug vest she wore hugged her curves and through the thin material he could just make out her dark pink areolas, while through her knickers he could just barely see the dark curls at the apex of her thighs.

He could feel his other self weakening. He didn't blame him. In fact, he was a bit surprised the other Doctor hadn't already begun undressing by now.

"You could scrub my back, and I could scrub yours," she continued. "Not to mention anything else you wanted me to… scrub."

Blimey.

He should go while he had the chance, he thought, before the other Doctor realized he was here. But he couldn't bring himself to break the connection. Not with Rose right there. Wearing what she was wearing. And saying things like that.

He felt his brow furrow and found himself looking down at the counter. His other self was seemingly concentrating on putting toothpaste on his toothbrush.

"Maybe later," he said.

She shrugged. "Alright," she said, sounding slightly disappointed. She moved her hands to the hem of her top and began to pull it off. She had only managed to pull it to the bottom of her ribcage before he stopped her.

"What are you doing?" he asked quickly.

"I'm gonna take a shower," she said as if she was speaking to a three-year-old.

"But I'm still in here."

She stared at him. "So?" She shook her head in disbelief and began to pull off her top again.

"Wait," he said, and her hands froze again. "Before you do that, would you mind making us some tea? By the time you finish, I'll be done in here."

"Alright," she said again. "But you'd better be. I don't want to be late again because you couldn't decide what to do with your hair."

"Rose Tyler, we _never_ were late because…" He turned back to her only to see she was giving him a cheeky grin. He rolled his eyes. "I'll be down in a minute."

She stood on her tiptoes and gave him a quick peck on the corner of his mouth before leaving the room, and he began to look in the mirror again.

With Rose off making tea the Doctor knew that she wouldn't be back any time soon. As much as he'd like to just spend time with her, apart from the sex, the risk of remaining, and possibly getting caught, while his other self wasn't distracted was too great. Time for a hasty retreat, the Doctor thought, and began to break the link.

But he found he couldn't.

He was stuck. His other self was holding him back, had grabbed him mentally and was holding on tight, preventing him from breaking away.

"I know you're there," he said quietly.

The Doctor tightened his mental shields and didn't respond.

"Don't bother pretending you aren't," he said. His voice was low and even, but the Doctor could feel his anger curling at the edges of their bond. "I know what you've been doing. You can't keep doing this. You have to stop."

_"How long have you known?"_ he asked.

"Long enough to know this isn't anywhere near the first time. At first I thought it was my imagination, the echo in my head, thoughts that didn't seem to be mine. But then I realized it was you. You've been there all along, haven't you?"

_"Not all the time."_

"No," he scoffed, "just when I was with Rose." He curled his lip in disgust. "You've been watching us. What on Earth have you been thinking? What the hell is wrong with you? You getting off on watching us?"

The Doctor didn't answer, feeling a wave of shame and self-hatred that he couldn't completely hide. In the mirror, he saw the other Doctor's eyes widen in shock.

"You have been, haven't you?" he accused. "You've been wanking while watching us. How sick can you get?"

He felt an irrational surge of anger and poured it through the link, causing the other Doctor to stagger back a step. Again he tried to pull away mentally, and again he was stopped. He lashed out at his other self.

_"Let me go," _he ordered.

"No. Not until you promise you won't do this again."

_"Alright,"_ he told him, _"I won't do this again."_

The other Doctor glared at himself in the mirror. "You're lying. Do you really think I can't tell, particularly through the link? How stupid do you think I am?"

_"Let go of me,"_ the Doctor said coldly, _"or I'll make you let go of me."_

"Go ahead and try!"

Furious, the Doctor reached out and twisted the telepathic link between them. It was painful for both of them, but as he was in control of it, it was more painful for his other self. The other Doctor's hands flew to his temples and he cried out in agony, but he still managed to hold onto the connection. The Doctor twisted harder, but the bond between them still held.

_"Let me go!"_ he roared.

"No!"

Finally exhausted by his efforts to twist the link, the Doctor let go, and the pain stopped as abruptly as it started. Clearly exhausted himself, the other Doctor hung onto the counter for support and gasped for air.

"Stronger than you thought I was, eh?" he panted, staring into his eyes in the mirror. "Didn't think a mere meta-crisis could hold out against a full Time Lord, did you? You forget, you're fighting me in my own body from an entirely different universe." The Doctor didn't answer, so he continued. "What is wrong with you? What the hell happened to you?"

"Doctor? Doctor, are you alright?" They both heard Rose's footfalls rushing towards them. She appeared in the doorway wearing a short dressing gown over her night clothes, her face full of concern.

"Yes," he answered. He gave her a bright smile. "Why do you ask?"

"I heard you yell all the way from the kitchen," she told him.

"Oh!" He shook his head. "That was nothing. Wasn't looking where I was going and hit my head on the door." He rubbed at a spot on the side of his head. "Just a bit startled by it is all."

"Didn't sound like you were just a bit startled. Let me see," she said, and he obediently bent down to let her look. She gently ran her fingers through his hair at the spot he had indicated. "I don't see anything…"

"That's because I'm fine. Honestly. Absolutely fine."

She frowned. "Are you sure? That was an awfully loud yell."

"Rose. Really, completely, one hundred percent fit as a fiddle. Now why don't you head back downstairs and I'll meet you there just as soon as I've finished shaving."

"Alright, but don't be too long or the tea's gonna be cold."

"I won't."

After she had been gone for a few moments, he returned to looking at himself in the mirror.

"I don't know what happened to you, but no matter what it is, you have to stop this. For your sake, and for hers. Don't you know what it would do to her to know what you've been doing, or are you so far gone that you don't care?"

_"You know I care."_

"I don't know anything anymore. I never thought you'd be capable of something like this."

_"Don't be so quick to judge,"_ he said sharply. _"You look like me, you think like me… Isn't that what you said on the beach?" _Disparagement crossed the link with his words. _"You're me. You'd do the same thing in my position."_

"And what exactly is your position?"

He didn't respond for a moment, and when he did his reply was so soft, it was barely a whisper.

_"Alone."_


	5. Part 5

**Part 5**

Finally alone in his thoughts, he left the en suite and walked through the attached bedroom, barely noticing his surroundings as he reran their conversation in his head.

_"I don't know what happened to you, but no matter what it is, you have to stop this. For your sake, and for hers. Don't you know what it would do to her to know what you've been doing, or are you so far gone that you don't care?"_

_"You know I care."_

_"I don't know anything anymore. I never thought you'd be capable of something like this."_

_"Don't be so quick to judge," he said sharply. "You look like me, you think like me… Isn't that what you said on the beach?" Disparagement crossed the link with his words. "You're me. You'd do the same thing in my position."_

_"And what exactly is your position?"_

_"Alone," he admitted at a telepathic whisper._

_They both fell silent for several long moments._

_"I'm sorry, but that's no excuse. You've got to stop."_

_"I've…" The Doctor hesitated for a moment before admitting something to his other self that he hadn't wanted to admit to himself. "I've tried," he said quietly. "I can't."_

_"You have to. I may be able to fight you, but I can't keep you out, not if you're determined enough. You've got to stop yourself."_

He automatically walked down the stairs, instinctively headed towards the kitchen.

_"One day. That's all I want." _

_"This is a bad idea. A very bad idea. You did the right thing, letting her go. Now you have to let go of her."_

_"Just one more day."_

_"That's what you say now. But this is Rose. You know it won't be enough."_

_"One. More. Day." They both fell silent again. "What would you do if you were me?" he asked finally._

At the doorway to the kitchen, he stopped and placed his palm on the door. She was on the other side.

_"Aren't you going to even try to stop me?"_

_"Would it do any good? I can't stop you. But I'm not going to help you."_

He pressed the door open.

There was a table on one side of the room set for breakfast with tea and muffins. But he barely noticed that at the sight of Rose.

She was standing at the opposite side of the room, pulling a small jug of milk out of the refrigerator. When she heard him she turned to him and gave him a bright smile.

And he grinned back.

_"Just promise me one thing. Don't hurt her."_

"I won't," he whispered to himself.

He crossed the room to stand at her side. Taking the jug of milk from her hands, he set it on the counter and slowly folded her into his arms. As she returned the hug, he buried his face in her hair.

Unable to stop himself, he whispered, "I missed you."

Oops, he thought. He shouldn't have said that.

She pulled away enough to look him directly in the face, a look of amusement on her face. "You just saw me five minutes ago. And what were you doing up there anyway?"

He swallowed nervously. "Why do you ask?" he asked, trying to keep his voice even.

"Well, you said you were going to finish getting ready, but you didn't shave."

His hand flew up to his face. "Oh, must have forgotten."

"That's not like you."

"Oh! Breakfast! I smell tea!" he said in an effort to change the subject. He let go of her, turned around, and finally took in the room. They weren't in the mansion. Although he hadn't noticed it consciously, he had realized that in the back of his mind as he had left the bedroom. But they weren't in a flat either. That was obvious because of the stairs alone, not to mention the view of the woods visible through the window over the sink.

The Doctor crossed over to the table and sat down, and Rose, after retrieving the milk, sat down next to him. He immediately filled up his mug with tea, milk and what he remembered she had always considered far too much sugar. Upon taking a sip, he hummed appreciatively. Telepathically occupying his duplicate's body wasn't quite the same as being in his own, but his senses were far more acute this way than when he was simply linked with him. He took another sip and smiled.

"Mmm, this is really good. I had forgotten—" He broke off the thought, inwardly wincing, and hoped that Rose hadn't caught this slip as well.

But she had.

"Forgotten what?" she asked.

He cleared his throat. "Forgotten how good your tea could be," he admitted.

She stared at him. "Blimey, how hard did you hit your head?" she asked. "Are you sure you're alright?"

Grateful for the excuse his other self had given her earlier, he jumped on it. "You're right! My head does hurt a bit. Not a lot, but just enough to be distracting."

"Maybe you should stay home," she suggested. "There's nothing really pressing for you to do today. I can handle things at work."

Work. The parallel Torchwood, he remembered. She worked there. Did the other Doctor work there as well? He tried to probe his other self's memories, but he had hidden himself away behind a locked door. The only available memories were surface memories, ones that would be considered automatic.

For a moment the Doctor wondered if his other self was watching him with Rose, as he had watched them, but he really couldn't tell. The other Doctor was part Time Lord after all. Even if he wasn't as strong a telepath as himself, he was still a very strong telepath, and he was in his own body.

And then something occurred to him. In thinking about Rose's comments about work, he had fixated on Torchwood, but now the rest of what she had said struck home. She was talking about leaving him here. Alone.

"No!" he exclaimed, a little too loudly he realized, and then moderated his tone. "I mean, yes, I should probably stay home, but you should too."

"If you're feeling that bad," she said, sounding worried, "maybe you should come in and get it checked out."

"No, that's not necessary. Really," he added when she looked dubious. "I just mean, maybe you could stay home too. We could spend some time alone together. Just the two of us. Like we used to, before… well, you know." She bit her lip, still looking worried, and he caught her hand. She automatically laced her fingers with his. "Of course we've spent a lot of time together since then, of course we have, but it doesn't make up for all the time we were apart. We were just separated so long…"

It must have been the right thing to say, because she slowly began to smile.

"Yeah, alright," she said, nodding. "That'd be nice. I just have to make a phone call." Her grin widened. "Who knows, they'll probably be glad the boss isn't coming in."

The boss? He hadn't known that, but he wasn't surprised. Rose had always been brilliant, and he had always been so proud of what she'd accomplished.

"I'll just go get my mobile and be right back," she said. "Don't wait to eat for me. Never mind, look who I'm talking to."

He grinned at her, having already polished off one muffin and started on a second.

After she had left the room and he heard her head upstairs, he took the opportunity to wander the room. The house was old, but the interior had been updated. He remembered from earlier that the en suite had been luxurious, and the kitchen looked brand new and boasted the latest in appliances for this time period. Or at least he assumed these were the latest in appliances. This was Pete's World after all, and he wasn't as familiar with the technology here.

There was a door on the far end of the room. He went through it and found himself outside on a low porch. To his right was some sort of outbuilding and in front of him, past a grassy area, was a wood. There was a well-worn trail leading there from the back door. Part of him immediately wanted to investigate, but the weather was nippy and damp and he could taste a thunderstorm approaching. Not to mention he wasn't wearing his, or the other Doctor's, suit jacket. Or even shoes.

The Doctor went back in the house, snagged a banana from the counter near the refrigerator and left the kitchen the way he had entered. In the front of the house was the lounge. He looked around. Comfortable looking chairs, a few small tables, bookcases containing books and miscellaneous alien doodads. A long sofa, long enough for him to recline on, sat underneath one set of windows, while a large screen television hung on the wall opposite it.

Along the far wall was a massive stone fireplace with a series of photos that had been artfully arranged on the mantle. He crossed over to it and examined the photos. Some were of people he didn't know, others he could only guess at. There was a picture of Mickey and Jake in what looked like San Francisco, only with zeppelins flying overhead. Another photo was of Jackie and Pete with a little boy who was clearly their son. The boy looked like a miniature Pete, only with more hair. He remembered that on the beach the first time, Rose had said Jackie was pregnant. And next to the photo of Jackie and Pete, there was a photo of Rose holding her little brother as a baby.

He moved further down the mantle and smiled. There were ones of the two of them as well. The quality wasn't the greatest, taken by the camera in her mobile no doubt. He took one down for closer examination. It was of Rose, Jack and himself in his previous incarnation, taken in Cardiff he believed. He carefully placed it back where it was.

The next one had been taken at the 2012 Olympics. He smiled wistfully. Even though he had felt a storm approaching, that had been one of the last times they had truly just been themselves, having fun, happy to be together. No Daleks, no Cybermen, no Void separating them.

And then he came to the last photo. For a moment he had thought it was of the two of them as well, although he didn't remember it being taken. It was a candid shot that had been blown up and framed of them at a party, a black tie affair, with him in a tux and her in a strapless formal blue gown. They were talking to someone, you couldn't see who, but he had his arm wrapped possessively around her bare shoulders and she was leaning against him, her head resting on his shoulder. They both looked so happy.

Why couldn't he remember where it had been taken?

And then he realized the truth. This was a recent photo. And he wasn't in it. It was Rose with the other Doctor.

His stomach seized with a sudden wave of anxiety and guilt. His other self was right. He shouldn't be here, intruding on their lives. They were happy. And that's what he had wanted for them, wasn't it?

Yes, it was.

Of course it was. That's why he had left them both here, after all, so they could spend their lives together in a way he couldn't.

He should go.

And then he turned as he heard the sound of Rose descending the stairs behind him.

She evidently had taken the time to shower and change while she had been upstairs, because instead of the robe she had worn earlier, now she wore a pair of oversized sweats and her hair, still slightly damp, was pulled back into a ponytail.

And she was completely, utterly beautiful.

And he was with her.

And all thoughts of leaving disappeared.


	6. Part 6

**Part 6**

Rose walked down the stairs wearing plain grey sweat pants and an oversized sweatshirt with Manchester United emblazoned on the front. Her hair, pulled back into a low ponytail, was still slightly damp and beginning to curl around the edges, and her feet were clad in fuzzy blue slippers.

The Doctor realized he must have been looking at her funny because a puzzled look came over her face.

"What?" she asked.

"You… you showered," he said, knowing the comment sounded stupid, both in words and in tone, the instant it came out of his mouth.

"Yeah. Told you I needed one."

"It's just…" Her eyebrows furrowed as his voice broke off. He had more than a bit of a gob, and he had been accused of being a flirt, but some things were just impossible for him to articulate easily. He had no doubt in his mind that the meta-crisis Doctor wouldn't have a problem with this, if for no other reason than he had practice. Could he himself do this?

Yes, he could, he told himself. He lowered his voice seductively. "It's just that I seem to recall that you wanted me to scrub your back."

Her eyebrows shot up. "And I seem to recall you turning me down."

"Later, I said," he answered. "I distinctly said later. And it is later than it was."

Biting her lower lip, Rose chuckled and crossed over to him. She put her arms around his neck, and he wrapped his around her waist. "I thought we were staying home because you hit your head and weren't feeling well."

"Well," he drawled, "I'm not feeling_ that_ bad."

She raised one eyebrow. "Really," she said. She stood on her tiptoes and pulled his head down to hers, and he closed his eyes and sank into the kiss.

It wasn't their first kiss. Although he didn't count Cassandra, he did count the one on the Game Station when he had taken the Vortex from her. And then there was ancient Rome, when he had been so carried away by happiness that he had slipped and kissed her without thinking. Something he deeply regretted not repeating.

This also wasn't the kiss she had shared with the other Doctor on the beach, with all the passion he had observed between them. And it wasn't even between them, not from her perspective at any rate.

It was a kiss that she thought she was giving to someone else that he was receiving with borrowed lips. But it was good. Soft, slow, and lingering. Oh, it was wonderful.

But as they kissed, he could feel an odd echo from his body in the TARDIS. Rather than heightening the experience, it distracted him, and he tamped down the connection.

Finally they broke apart, both slightly breathless, and he rested his forehead on hers. She giggled.

"What?" he asked.

"'S just, even though it's been months, sometimes I still can't believe that we're back together. And that we do this."

"This?"

"Snog," she said, and then gave him a small smirk. "Shag."

"Me neither," he said truthfully. "And I'd… I'd like to do more."

She shook her head. "Are you sure you're alright, Doctor? You're definitely acting weird today."

"In what way?" His tone was casual, but inside he was worried. Was his meta-crisis self truly that different than he was?

"When you want to kiss me, you usually don't talk about it," she said. "Usually you just do it."

"You're right, of course," he said, trying to hide his nervousness. He had never really done this on his own before. Not with her, at any rate.

And it was absolutely essential he not act out of character for the other Doctor, or this would be over far too soon. He had always prided himself on his acting skills, but this wasn't bluffing his way through a difficult situation. And this was Rose. She knew him better than anyone in the universe. Either universe.

With that in mind, he pulled her closer and lowered his head to hers.

And her stomach growled.

"Oops," he said. "Forgot you haven't had breakfast."

"Yeah, better do that," she said, pulling away from him. She headed towards the kitchen. "So, what do you want to do today?"

"I don't know," he told her, following her into the room. "Any ideas?"

Rose took out a tray and began loading it with food: fruit, more muffins, butter, several types of jam and marmalade, and the pot of tea with the matching milk and sugar containers. She added her mug, two plates, utensils, and napkins. After a moment's thought, she added some hard boiled eggs from the refrigerator as well. When she was done, the tray was loaded to heaping.

The Doctor raised his eyebrows. "Got enough food?" he asked in amusement.

She frowned. "Not sure," she said and gave him a sideways glance. "You tell me. Don't want you eating all my breakfast before I get any."

He laughed and picked up the tray. "Lounge?"

She nodded and picked up his mug.

Back in the lounge, he set it on the low table in front of the sofa. She immediately sat down and began to pour tea in her own mug.

"Thought we could just hang around and watch movies," she said and then shivered. "Kinda chilly in here."

"It is cold in here," he agreed. He held out an arm. "Look, all the hairs are standing up on my manly hairy arms."

She giggled. "I haven't heard you say anything like that since…" Her voice trailed off for a moment. "Well, since before."

"Oh," he said quietly.

A short, uncomfortable silence followed, one that was only broken by the Doctor gesturing at the fireplace.

"The weather is going to be bad all day," he said. "Do you want me to start a fire?"

"After last time?" she asked incredulously, and he wondered what had happened last time. "No way. I'll start the fire; you pick a movie."

They traded places, the Doctor on the sofa with the tiny remote for the television, Rose kneeling in front of the fireplace. Unlike the rest of the interior of the house, with all its modern upgrades, it was an old fashioned one, one that actually burned wood, and she started it like an expert, putting down crumpled paper, kindling, and firewood in layers in the hearth.

While she was doing that, the Doctor tried to figure out the remote. Technical expert that he was, it baffled him as none of the buttons were marked. Finally, after a few false starts, a menu of movies appeared on the screen.

"What are you in the mood for: adventure, mystery, romance? Sci-fi?" The last was said hopefully, as some of his best memories with her were lazy days spent in the TARDIS watching campy movies together and laughing at how aliens and spaceships were depicted.

By now the fire was roaring and she sat down next to him. "Since we've got all day," she said, "we could watch _Grace Beach_ again."

"_Grace Beach_?"

"You remember, the one with the two detectives solving the murder of a little boy on the beach." When he didn't respond, she bumped her shoulder into his. "Y'know, the one with the grouchy detective with dark hair and a bit of scruff."

He recognized that tone of voice, the tone that said perhaps she fancied the detective a tiny bit and that she knew he was jealous so she just had to tease him.

"Nah," he drawled in an overly casual tone. There was no way he'd admit to jealousy. "Once you know who done it, what's the point?"

She snickered, and he knew she didn't believe him.

"Alright, since you're the one who doesn't 'feel well', I'll put on _The Great Mouse Detective_," she said, grabbing the remote out of his hand. "I'll even let you tell me all about how Sherlock Holmes was real and how you and he solved a crime together."

Grabbing an afghan off the back of the sofa, Rose threw it over their laps, snuggled into his side, and rested her head on his shoulder. He automatically wrapped his arm around her, marveling at how natural it still felt. He was taken back to the times they had spent just like this, relaxing and enjoying each other's company. He knew he ought to feel guilty for these stolen moments, but the truth was he felt happier than he had in years.

They spent most of the day like that, cuddling on the sofa watching movies, only getting up to feed the fire or get more to eat. Around the third movie, _Space Pirates of the Thirty-Third Century_, they popped some popcorn to go with. Having dealt with space pirates themselves, they spent the entire movie criticizing the ridiculous plot, laughing at the terrible special effects, and throwing popcorn at the screen.

As the movie ended, Rose stood up and stretched. "'S raining," she said, looking through the window.

He nodded as he flipped through the movie listings again. "Thought it would," he told her. "How about _The Slime Monster from Surrey_ next?"

"Nope," she said. "You picked the last one. Now it's my turn."

She picked a historical drama set at the end of the monarchy in Pete's World. In it, a member of the royal family fell in love with a commoner and he gave up his title to be with her, paralleling the fall of the monarchy to the common people in Pete's World. Despite knowing that historical dramas usually played fast and loose with actual history, the Doctor found himself drawn in by the quality of the writing and acting, so drawn in, in fact, that he barely noticed the occasional flashes of lightening or the approaching thunder.

As the romance began heating up on the screen, Rose turned to face him and began nuzzling his neck. He hummed contentedly and kissed her forehead.

A burst of light and a clap of thunder almost directly overhead shook the house, startling them both, and with that the power went out. Rose chuckled.

"With no telly, now what'll we do?" Rose said in a low voice. She returned to nuzzling his neck and then expanded to kissing his jawline. He sighed and tilted his head in response, allowing her better access to his jaw.

"I don't know," he responded breathlessly. "I was kind of interested in seeing what happened."

"The monarchy was overthrown," she told him, planting kisses on his throat, "and they all moved to America."

"And what happened to—who was it?"

"Prince Rupert and Cecily?" she asked.

"Uh, uh huh," he answered.

"Instead of telling you, why don't I show you?" she asked. She swung one leg over his to straddle his lap and then wrapped her arms around his neck. "Let's see, first I think Cecily did this..." She dropped her head to gently suck on his pulse point. He drew in a ragged breath. "Then I think she did this…" She moved her mouth to gently nip at his Adam's apple, and he quietly moaned. "Then I think she…"

As her mouth covered his, he pulled her tightly into his arms and kissed her back. An almost overwhelming desire for her warred with his innate sense of right and wrong. And this was wrong. He knew it, even if he didn't want to admit it.

He pulled away from her to look deeply in her eyes, and she stared back, puzzled.

"Rose, I…" he began, and then couldn't finish the thought. What could he say? Rose, I want you, but I'm not who you think I am? "I…"

She smiled and cupped his face. "'S alright. I know," she said.

His eyes flew open wide. "You do?"

"Of course. You don't have to say it," she continued. "And I love you too. Have done ever since I met you."

"Oh, Rose," he whispered and then, fast as the lightning outside, moved her so she lay on her back on the sofa. He hovered over her. "I love you, so much. And I always have."

And to the sounds of the storm outside, he lowered his head to hers.


	7. Part 7

**a/n: This chapter is definitely rated M and should be considered NSFW. **

**And I don't normally do this (mention my life outside of writing), but I feel the need today. Several of my friends have been harassed, almost to the point of bullied, in regards to not "properly" tagging their dark!Doctor fics on a couple of other websites, namely Teaspoon and tumblr. When sharing a snippet of this chapter with them, I added the following warning to it, and a number of my friends asked me to include it here. So in the interest of full disclosure of my story, and in support of them, I'd like to add the following warning to my fic:**

**"WARNING (because we do that on tumblr these days): some people MAY consider this dub-con. If telepathically pretending to be someone else in order to have sex with your former girlfriend is a trigger for you, you've been warned."**

* * *

**Part 7**

Resting his hands on the sofa on either side of her face, the Doctor gently pressed his lips to hers, but when Rose tried to deepen the kiss, he pulled away and met her eyes.

"Say it again," he said intently, and she gave him a small smile.

"I love you," she replied.

He shook his head. "No," he said. "All of it. Say all of it."

Her brow furrowed in confusion. "I don't know what you mean."

"Say it!" he demanded. Desperation was coiling in the pit of his stomach and creeping into his tone, but he was at a loss as to how to stop it.

For a moment she stared at him silently, and then all of a sudden her eyes widened as she finally understood him. With one hand she cupped his face. "I've _always _loved you, ever since I met you."

The Doctor closed his eyes for a moment, taking in her words, as the anxiety he had been feeling, about being here, about what he had done to have this time with her, slowly began to drain away. She loved him. Had done so since their first days together. These words had to mean she loved _him_, not just the other Doctor. They had to.

They _had_ to.

He opened his eyes to find both love and concern shining in them.

"Rose Tyler, I…" He broke off, unable to articulate what he had just said moments earlier. No longer able to keep himself in check, he swiftly bent down and kissed her almost bruising hard, frantically smashing their lips together. Noses bumped and teeth clashed as she returned his fervor, gripping him tightly and pulling him closer.

She shifted, and without his lips leaving hers, he moved to kneel between her thighs, allowing him to rest his weight on one elbow. His opposite hand slipped beneath her top, seeking her breast. He had known she wasn't wearing a bra the instant she had come down from her shower, and never had he been so glad about it, because it allowed him this, to firmly clutch and knead her soft, warm flesh, and to caress and squeeze her nipple between his fingers.

As he touched her, she opened her mouth to his, deepening the kiss while pulling him closer and trapping him within her arms. Her tongue darted against his, touching, tasting, and finally tangling together.

Kissing her, touching her, was so good. But it wasn't enough, and he had known it wouldn't be. Not for her, and not for him.

He backed away and grabbed her sweatshirt, intending to pull it off, and she helped him by leaning forward. Once her shirt was on the floor, he sat back on his heels, yanking off his own shirt and dropping it carelessly on top of hers. He then leaned forward again to capture her breast in his mouth.

He had a blast of sensation: her scent, the taste of her, the softness of the delicate skin of her areola on his lips, the feel of her nipple pebbled against the tip of his tongue. He licked and sucked and nipped, reveling in the experience.

And then she cried out.

He tried to pull away. "I'm so sorry, Rose," he began, but she grabbed fistfuls of his hair and held him in place.

"God, don't stop!" she said as she arched her back, pushing her breast back up against his mouth. He grinned smugly, in a combination of pride and relief.

He moved to her other breast, again marveling at the feel of her hard nipple against his tongue, and slipped his hand downward, gently squeezing ribs and waist and stomach as he went, to finally plunge his hand beneath her waistband and knickers.

"Oh, yes," he murmured against her breast when he found she was already damp. His mouth twisted into a small smirk of manly pride. He had done this to her. He himself.

He rubbed firmly against her core, and she thrust up into his hand with a quiet whimper. With that he realized his trousers, which had begun to feel too snug when she had begun kissing him, were now uncomfortably tight and growing more so. Desire had turned into want had turned into urgency. He lowered his hips enough to press his erection against her thigh in an effort to relieve some of the pressure. It did the opposite.

He needed her. Now.

With his mouth still on her breast, he moved his hands to his waistband to try and undo his trousers. But he couldn't seem to manage it. Come on, Doctor, he thought to himself, fumbling with the button, these used to be your own trousers. Surely you can undo them. Surely after nine hundred years you can unbutton a button. But his hands were shaking too much from nervousness.

"Bedroom?" she asked breathlessly.

He looked up at her, then at the stairs, and then at the ceiling, thinking of the bedroom on the floor above them. He shook his head. "Too… far away," he answered, panting between the words. "Can't… wait… that long."

She nodded. Moving his hands out of the way, she unfastened his trousers and pulled them and his pants down low enough to free his erection. He hurriedly tugged them both over his narrow hips and scrambled out of them while she removed her sweat pants and knickers.

"Rose?" he questioned.

"Yeah," she said. "I'm ready." She wrapped one leg around his hip, and he lined himself up with her.

"Then allons-y," he said, and with one quick thrust was buried deep inside her.

He had known that by using this body, one that was not his own, that sex would be different: more than just the telepathic link with his other self, watching and feeling at a distance; less than if he was in his own Time Lord body, with its heightened senses. But it was oh, so good. Brilliant, in fact.

She wrapped her arms around his neck and moved her legs to encircle his waist. He moaned.

"Molto bene," he whispered, momentarily overwhelmed with the sensation of being surrounded by her.

She ground against him, causing him to slip further inside of her.

Oh yes. So good.

He pulled back out, almost completely out, and pushed back in, deeper than before. And again. And again.

"So, so good," he murmured.

"Oh, God, yes," she responded. "But faster, yeah?"

He chuckled. "Thought you'd never ask."

He picked up the pace with each stroke, driving further and further, pleasure building, need increasing, trying desperately to hold himself back so she could finish first. And she was close; her legs tightened around him and her nails dug into his back and his arse as she clutched at him, trying to spur him on.

"Harder, Doctor," she cried out.

Hearing the sound of his name on her lips, he let go, driving himself into her over and over and over. She screamed his name as she came, and he followed, arching his back and neck as ecstasy overtook him. He shouted her name as wave upon wave of pleasure coursed through his body, feeling like it would never end and never wanting it to.

Finally, trembling, he collapsed on top of her, too weak for the moment to move.

"That was… bloody fantastic," she said, breathing hard.

"I was, wasn't I," he answered with a small, smug grin while trying to catch his breath himself. He was trying to sound cheeky, but he was frankly too exhausted to make much of an effort.

She gave him a halfhearted swat on the shoulder, obviously exhausted herself, and he chuckled.

Once he had regained his strength somewhat, he moved to roll them onto their sides and she stopped him.

"Just stay there for another minute, yeah?" she said, wrapping her arms around him again. "I like the feel of you on top of me."

He smiled at her—blimey, he loved her, even if it was hard for him to say—and, after giving her a quick kiss, rested his forehead on hers. He had never told her, but whenever he did that, he could sense her there, in his mind. Not a lot, not actual thought, that would take more effort, but he could feel her like a soothing balm over his soul. He briefly wondered if the other him had ever told her that and then decided he didn't care; he refused to think of his other self right now as post-coital lethargy and the comfort of her mind released much of the anxiety and tension he always carried within himself.

She always had made him feel better, and shagging her was better still.

No, making love with her was better still, for that's what it was to him: making love, not shagging. Something he should have done years ago, and in his own body.

No, mustn't think about that part of it.

Even though he was trying to keep most of his weight off of her and on his elbows on either side of her, after a minute she nudged him to move. He shifted so that his back was against the back of the sofa. She moved to cuddle against him, at the same time pulling off her hair tie and shaking her hair out; most of her hair had fallen out of it anyway. She placed one of her legs between his; he knew it was in part to remain close to him and in part so she didn't fall off the sofa. He propped himself up on one elbow and carefully reached over her, trying not to knock her off the sofa and onto the floor.

"What are you looking for?" she asked.

"There it is," he said, not quite answering her. He pulled the afghan up from where it had landed on the floor and covered them both with it before wrapping his arms back around her and relaxing again.

They lay like that for a long time, satiated, wrapped in the blanket and each other's arms, listening to the crackle of the fireplace and the rain outside. But eventually, the power came back on.

"Need to get up," Rose said. Her head was resting against his chest with her face turned away from his.

"Nope," he replied, tightening his arms around her. "We can stay right here."

"Forever?" she asked with a chuckle.

He smiled a bit sadly at the familiar word and the memory of her promise from so long ago.

"Yes," he whispered, trying to keep his tone light. "I want to stay here forever."

"Mmmm," Rose hummed. "As nice as that sounds, the fire's goin' out and we're gonna need to eat." She started to pull away, and he stopped her.

"Just wait for a second," he said. He climbed over her and grabbed a few tissues out of a box on the end table. Then he knelt next to her on the floor next to the sofa. With one hand he gently parted her thighs and, using the tissues, carefully cleaned her. Once done, he lowered his head to her and softly kissed her there with his lips and tongue.

She propped herself up on her elbows to look at him. "Don't start somethin' you're not gonna finish," she said.

The Doctor looked up and met her eyes. He raised an eyebrow. "Who says I won't finish this?" he asked. He began again, using his tongue and his fingers, and within moments he had her crying out again. Afterwards, as she caught her breath, he put his fingers in his mouth to suck them clean.

Rose filled his senses: her taste, her scent, seeing her as she flew apart, feeling her clench around his fingers, hearing her cry out his name.

Incredible. Astonishing.

But it wasn't enough. One day with her wasn't enough. And he couldn't bear to think about how soon the day would be over.


	8. Part 8

**a/n: Just the epilogue after this.**

* * *

**Part 8**

The sound of Rose giggling startled him out of his thoughts.

"Gonna let me get up now?" she asked.

"Oh, oh yes." He jumped up out of her way.

"You want pizza, Chinese, or a curry?" she asked as she sat up. "Because I don't wanna cook tonight. Unless you want to?" He looked at her askance. "Nah, didn't think so." She began to pull on her sweatshirt and sweat pants.

"Oh, must you?" he asked with an exaggerated tone of disappointment in his voice.

She grinned. "Yes, I think so, and _you_ have to get dressed too," she said pointedly. "You remember what happened last time. That's why the sandwich shop won't deliver here anymore."

He blinked, wondering what exactly his meta-crisis self had been up to, and quickly dressed as well.

After their pizza had been delivered—turned out the Indian place wouldn't deliver either—they watched another movie, a romantic comedy this time. They spent the evening cuddling on the sofa and laughing at the ludicrous situations.

But he could feel his other self's presence in his mind, just on the edge of his awareness. His time with her was slipping away; with every tick of the clock, with every beat of the other's heart, he knew the time was coming when he had to leave.

No. Not yet.

And he shoved all thoughts of leaving away from him.

When the movie ended, he picked up the remote control and turned off the television.

It was almost time.

But being there, how could he leave? His thoughts began to race. Was there any way he could possibly stay? Even just a little while longer? She had promised forever to him, had done everything to come back to him, and she had succeeded when he had failed. He was supposed to have gotten her forever.

It wasn't fair.

Maybe there would be some way he could change places with his other self, even just a little while, send the other Doctor to his body in the TARDIS. Perhaps he could build something here to aid the process, base it on psychograph technology. It wouldn't have to be a psychograph per se, since they'd only be trading bodies instead of sharing one…

Plus there was that little business of his song ending. This could give him more time.

The thought gave him pause. Was that part of the reason he was so desperate to stay here?

No. He just wanted to be with her. He had missed her so much.

But the prophecies of his death (or at least regeneration) were part of the reason why he had been so desperate to see her. To be with her, even if it was just one last time. The universe, both universes, owed him at least this. He had saved them, and he had had everything taken away as a reward.

And it just wasn't fair.

But it wasn't fair to the other Doctor to change places with him either, risking _his_ life in the process instead of his own.

And a small voice within himself said that if he did change places, even for a short time, he'd have to force the other Doctor to do so.

At the turn of his thoughts he was suddenly horrified. What was he thinking? Was he truly no better than Cassandra, who had attempted to steal Rose's body? Because that's what he would be doing.

No. He hadn't sunk that far.

Had he?

No, he told himself firmly. No, he hadn't.

"Doctor?"

Rose's voice interrupted his thoughts, and he turned to face her.

Brow furrowed and lips pursed together, she was looking at him in concern.

"Are you alright?" she asked.

He swallowed nervously, hoping his thoughts hadn't reached his face. "Yes," he tried to say brightly. "Why?"

"Well, usually you're talking a mile a minute and you've been awfully quiet for a while now. 'S not like you."

"It's nothing," he said.

She continued to look at him disbelievingly.

"Really, it's nothing," he said again.

After considering him several seconds longer, she gave up (he could see the change in her face, in how she began to smile), stood up, and took his hand. She pulled him to his feet.

"C'mon," she said, leading him to the stairs. "I think someone promised to scrub my back."

He followed her without speaking—that was sort of a first—as she led him up the stairs and through the bedroom and back into the en suite where he had first seen her today. Once there, she silently turned on the shower to allow the water to warm.

He expected her to disrobe herself, to begin to undress by slowly—very, very slowly—pulling off her top, teasing him by baring her skin bit by bit, exposing stomach and ribs inch by inch before revealing the curves of her perfect breasts. And then slowly pushing down her sweat pants over hips and thighs, uncovering the dark curls that hid her sex from view.

In effect, torturing him with anticipation.

But she didn't.

Instead she met his eyes and she stepped forward until they were only inches apart. With an obviously practiced hand, she began to undo his trousers, unfastening, unzipping, fingertips brushing lightly against his straining erection, never breaking her gaze.

She freed him from his pants and first palmed him, then slowly stroked him. His breathing quickened, and he couldn't prevent a moan from escaping.

That elicited a small smile on her part, and she let go of him. "Don't want this to be over that quick," she said, and he gave her a rueful grin.

"No, not quite yet," he replied.

She bent to push trousers and pants down, and he stepped out of them before she stood again and pulled off his t-shirt.

He stood naked in front of her.

They had both been naked earlier, of course, both scrambling to pull off their clothes before their last encounter. But this, with him naked and her still dressed, this was different. It left him feeling… off balanced to say the least.

He couldn't resist a peak at himself, since earlier he had been in such a rush to get undressed he hadn't really noticed what this body looked like. He had always known that the other Doctor's face was the image of his, but he had never been sure how much he really looked like him otherwise. This might not be his body, but except for the slight variations of his internal organs, it was his: same thin frame, lean but still muscular; same freckles; same mole between the shoulder blades; same smattering of hair on his chest. Even identical below the waist.

Well, he had always known humans looked like Time Lords. It made sense that his part human/part Time Lord meta-crisis self would look the same even there.

He wasn't the only one looking. Rose was frankly staring in appreciation, even though he was certain she was very familiar with how this body looked unclothed. He smirked. Well, he had always known she liked this form, which was why he had tried so hard to keep it when regenerating.

But she was overdressed.

He grabbed the hem of her top and slowly pulled it off, just as he had imagined her doing just moments earlier. Then he knelt on one knee, moved his hands to her waistband and pulled down.

She wasn't wearing any knickers. She must not have put them back on when she had dressed. All that time, through dinner and the last movie, he had had his arm wrapped around her and she hadn't been wearing knickers. And he felt the disappointment of a missed opportunity.

As she kicked off her sweat pants, he stood up. She wrapped her arms around his neck and he pulled her close, trapping his erection between them. For a moment his entire awareness was focused on the warmth and softness of her belly as he pressed against her.

She stood on her tiptoes to give him a deep, lingering kiss, and he closed his eyes, sinking into it. His lips chased hers as she slowly pulled away.

With a small, seductive smile, she dropped her hand to take his and led him into the shower.

The showerhead was mounted in the ceiling, high enough even for him to stand under, and sent water like a warm rain cascading downward over their bodies. They were completely silent; the sound of the water falling on the tile floor masked even the sounds of their breathing.

He stared at her, mesmerized at the way the rivulets of water ran from her hair down her body, down over breasts and belly and thighs before running down the drain.

After a moment he noticed a bottle of floral-scented body wash, obviously Rose's, on a built-in shelf in the tile wall behind her. He reached around her to grab it, and eschewing the scrubber that sat next to it, he poured a small amount of the liquid soap into his hands and worked it into a fine lather.

Starting on the side of her neck, he ran his soap-covered hands in small circles over her body, shoulders and arms, breasts, belly and arse, marveling over how the water and soap made her body slick and her skin glisten.

As the water washed the soap away, she picked up a different bottle and began on him. She motioned to him to duck down his head and he did, and she began by washing his hair, then running her hands down his still-unshaven face and neck, to his shoulders and downward, lightly scraping her fingernails down his chest.

And then, still wordlessly, she sank to her knees in front of him.

And he gasped as he felt her mouth on him. The feeling was indescribable, which was saying something for a man with his gob.

His knees weakened so much he was barely able to stand. He placed one hand on her head and the other on the tile wall behind him to steady himself, and as she moved, he slowly moved with her.

So, so good. So unutterably good.

The pleasure built, but he realized this wasn't what he wanted.

"Rose," he said while turning off the water.

She released him and looked up at him questioningly.

"Bedroom," he said, and she nodded.

As he left the shower stall, he took one of the fluffy, white towels that were hanging on the warming rack. She reached for one as well, and he stopped her. He dried her off himself, using the towel first to squeeze the water out of her hair, then to move on, gently drying her skin before grabbing another towel to dry off himself. Then he gently lifted her up, cradling her in his arms, and carried her to the bed.

As he laid her on the bed, he stared at her in wonder. In ancient Rome she had been turned into a statue of Minerva, the warrior goddess, and he himself had carved a likeness of her as Fortuna, the goddess of fortune. But now she looked like Venus, the goddess of love and beauty. She was all of those to him, Fortuna, Minerva, and Venus, but she was more. For a short time she had literally been a goddess: the Bad Wolf, the goddess of Time itself. And of all the pantheon in all the universes, he believed in her.

But she was also always Rose: his best friend, his plus-one.

His beloved.

And he knew that this was his last chance: his last chance to make love to her, his last chance to worship her with his body.

She held out her arms to him, and he joined her on the bed.

He didn't dare speak for fear of revealing who he was, but the moment seemed too solemn for speech anyway. Instead he proclaimed his feelings with kisses and caresses, with lips and tongue and hands. They made love unhurriedly, reverently, with him slowly gliding in and out of her until they both came with the sounds of passion and her whispers of love.

Afterwards, he lay on his back with her head on his shoulder and their legs entangled. As he held her, her fingers wandered his chest, playing with his chest hair, and he seemingly drew random circles on her skin with his fingertips. Circles that were anything but random. Circles that said how he felt about her; circles that said what she was, what she would always be to him; circles that said everything he couldn't say.

Now it really was almost time to go. He knew it, and it was tearing him up.

It wasn't fair.

"Penny for 'em," she said softly, and he could hear the smile in her voice.

Here was his opening, here was his chance to get the answers to all the questions that part of him desperately wanted to know after he had left them here. Part of him didn't want to know, of course, to know if she were unhappy or if she hated him for what he had done. But this was his last chance, the only chance he'd have to ask the questions that had been plaguing him since the beach. If he didn't ask now, he'd never be able to.

But he didn't do that. He made a decision and never looked back.

But he had done that here, hadn't he?

Well, the rules had never applied to Rose. Rose had always been different.

He debated with himself over and over again. Did he really want to know? Would he regret not asking for the rest of his possibly long life?

Finally he answered, "Rose, are you… happy with h… with me?" He hoped she didn't notice his slip, and this time she didn't appear to.

"Course I am," she said, and then she suddenly turned to stare at him wide-eyed. "You are, aren't you? Happy here?"

"Of course I am," he replied. His voice was filled with repressed emotion. "How could I not be?"

"Good," she said. "You scared me for a minute there." She paused for a moment. "Why do you ask?"

"Well," he began, "I just wasn't sure—things happened so fast—the way… he… left… I know you wanted to go with him at first."

"We talked about this before," she said. "And I thought you didn't like to talk about him."

He swallowed nervously. This was getting into dangerous territory. He should drop it.

But he didn't.

"Just humor me," he said.

She put her head back on his shoulder. "You know I wanted to go with," she said quietly. "And I was so… angry… and hurt… at how he handled things."

"And now?"

"I understand why he did what he did. Still don't agree with it, but I understand," she told him. "And I love you. I'm happy here with you. And even if he came back, which I know he can't, you know I'd still stay with you. You offered to spend your life with me, and you gave me a choice. He didn't."

He drew in a ragged breath. He'd made the right decision.

"But you know I still love him. I want him to be happy. I don't want him to be alone," she said at a whisper. "Do you think he's happy?"

His eyes glistened, and he was glad she wasn't looking at him. "Yes," he said, trying to make his voice steady, "I know he misses you, but right now, right this minute, I'm sure he's not alone, and I'm sure he's happy."

"Good. I'm glad." She yawned, trying to cover it up. "Sorry," she said.

He kissed the top of her head. "You're tired," he said. "You should get some sleep."

She looked up at him and lifted herself up enough to give him a soft, lingering kiss. "I love you, you know."

"I know," he said. "Me too."

She smiled at him before she rolled over and scooted backwards, not stopping until her back was plastered against his chest. He wrapped his arm around her and pulled her closer still, neatly spooning her from behind.

He lifted his head enough to kiss her on the shoulder and then nestled back against her. She sighed contentedly.

"Goodbye, Doctor," she whispered.

His breath caught. She couldn't have possibly said what he heard, or could she? Deep in her subconscious, could she have known it was him? Was it possible she had known it was him all along?

"What… what did you say?" he asked quietly.

"Said g'night," she replied sleepily. "What 'cha think I said?"

He drew in a deep breath and let it out slowly. He was imagining things, he told himself. Part of him wanted so desperately for her to know it was him that he was hearing things.

"Just that," he whispered. "Goodnight, Rose."

But she was already asleep.

For a long while he lay holding her, listening to her breathing, feeling her heartbeat under the palm of his hand, delaying the inevitable. Finally unable to put it off any longer, he began to organize his memories. He left copies of the 'facts' of the day open for the other Doctor to be able to access, and put the rest behind a door. If his counterpart wanted to see them, he'd be able to, but if he didn't, he wouldn't be forced to.

Because, although he could be wrong, he truly didn't think his other self had been watching. They might have started as the same man, but they weren't any longer. And he had to admit, the other Doctor was the better man. Rose's influence, no doubt.

Once the copies of his memories were carefully stored, he knew he could delay no longer. Placing a gentle kiss in her hair, he whispered, "I'm sorry. I'm so, so sorry. It did need saying. I should have said it long ago. And if it's my last chance to say it, Rose Tyler, I love you."

And he closed his eyes.

And opened them to find himself in his own bed in the TARDIS.

Alone.


	9. Part 9 -- Epilogue

**Part 9—Epilogue **

Rose was gone.

That was his first thought when the Doctor found himself laying on his side in bed, his body curled around a pillow where Rose had just been.

But she hadn't been. Not here at any rate.

He rolled onto his back and stared at the ceiling, only peripherally aware that his face was damp. The other Doctor had been right. His time with her hadn't been enough. No amount of time would ever have been enough.

But it would have to be enough.

It was time. Time to let them get back to living their lives.

And time for him to get back to normal life, or whatever passed for it for the Last of the Time Lords. Being the hero. Saving the day.

But before he could save the universe again, he needed a shower.

He got up and walked to his en suite, undressing on the way, and stuck his pyjamas in the hamper by the door. He got into the shower stall and turned on the water, trying not to remember his shower with Rose. But as the water poured over him, he realized it was impossible. His eyes fell closed as the memories bombarded him.

Her naked body, slick and glistening.

Her nails lightly scratching his chest.

Her kneeling in front of him.

The cool tile under his hand as he steadied himself.

Hot water cascading over them both.

Her even hotter mouth on him.

No. He shouldn't think about it. He needed to stop this.

And he abruptly turned the dial on the shower's temperature control and allowed the icy cold water that began to pour out of the showerhead to shock him out of his thoughts.

He finished his ablutions, toweled off, and began to get dressed without consciously being aware he was doing so. Underpants. Socks. T-shirt. Shirt. Suit.

With a start, he realized he had pulled his own blue pinstriped suit out of the wardrobe, an identical copy to the one the other Doctor had worn to Pete's World. He began to put it back, and then stopped himself as he was struck by the irony of the situation. He was concerned about the color of his suit? What did it matter what color suit he wore? He had spent the last day wearing a borrowed blue suit in a borrowed body.

Besides, he was in a blue mood. He bloody well wasn't going to determine his clothing choice based on what the other Doctor wore.

Before he could change his mind, he put on the suit, carefully buttoning the two top buttons of his jacket, and tugged on a coordinating tie and his red trainers.

Once dressed, he turned to tidy his bed—the TARDIS didn't do everything for him—and caught a glimpse of Rose's photo album on his nightstand, with the photo of Rose in the cream colored bikini still laying on top of it.

Picking up the photo, he sank down onto the bed and stared at it for a moment, tracing her image with a fingertip. He swallowed hard and blinked away the tears that threatened.

No. He couldn't do this anymore.

He quickly slid the photo back in its place in the album, set it down on the nightstand and then strode from the room. He returned almost immediately, holding a cardboard box he had retrieved from a storage room down the hall. Before he could change his mind, he put the box on the bed and carefully laid the album in the bottom of the box. He then opened the bottom drawer of the nightstand.

Could he do this?

Yes.

He had to.

The TARDIS could have done this, provided a box, even packed up Roses' belongings, but the Doctor knew he needed to do it himself. It was symbolic of him letting her go, the way he should have done after dropping them off at Bad Wolf Bay. Slowly he began to take Rose's belongings out of the drawer and place them in the box, carefully stowing them or folding them neatly as he went. A colorful silk scarf he had purchased for her in Kyoto. Her pink jacket. Her purple top. A hair tie. Her underthings.

Once the drawer was empty and the box full, he carried it down the hall to a familiar door. Rose's door. He closed his eyes and paused for a moment, steeling himself, and then forced himself to enter the room.

Eyes still closed, he inhaled deeply, taking in the scents of Rose's soaps and perfume, and that of Rose herself. They hung in the air, preserved in perpetuity by the TARDIS. It was like being surrounded by her. If he kept his eyes closed, he could imagine she was still there, lying on her bed reading, or doing her makeup in the bathroom, perhaps.

He opened his eyes.

Everything was exactly as she had left it—bed unmade, clothes on the floor, makeup scattered across the dresser and in the en suite—as if she had just left for the day and would be back shortly.

But she wouldn't be back shortly.

And it wasn't fair.

No, can't think that way. It's over and done and for the best.

He tightened his jaw, and with a determination he didn't know he possessed, he set the box on the floor and left the room. Once the door had closed behind him, he pulled out his sonic screwdriver and sonicked the lock, sealing the door more effectively than simply locking it. He'd be able to reopen it if he really wanted to, but it would take effort, enough effort that he'd have to choose to break the seal.

He stuck his screwdriver back in his pocket and walked the short distance to the console room.

The room seemed overly large, the hum of the Time Rotor overly loud in the empty room. As he walked up to the console, the memories of the last time he had been in this room came rushing back. The disaster on the space transport last time out—_everybody died_—had only been a matter of hours earlier. Being with Rose had allowed him to forget that for a time, but she wasn't here to hold his hand now.

No matter, he thought, flipping a switch as he circled the console. He had traveled alone before, in most of his incarnations at one point or another. Had been doing it this time for a while now, in fact. Preferred it even, over being entangled in the nonsense of human relationships.

He was getting quite good at lying to himself. He almost believed it this time.

Rose had wanted him to be happy, he reminded himself. He didn't think he could quite manage that, but perhaps he could have fun.

"Where to?" he said aloud, spinning dials and pressing buttons. "Deltarious for the singing cloud festival? The rings of Reginaus? The no longer lost moon of Poosh?" He glanced at the display. He had unthinkingly programmed in the coordinates for a familiar place and a familiar time. His voice, when he spoke, was low and cold. "No. Not there. Anywhere but 21st century Earth."

He took a deep breath and slowly let it out, forcing a sense of joviality into his voice. "I just need a distraction. Hmmm. I know! Somewhere to explore all by myself." With a false enthusiasm that he hoped would become real, he bounced around the console, beginning to set the coordinates for the next destination. "Somewhere fun. Somewhere where I don't have to save the universe. And I know just the place.

"I'll go to Mars."


End file.
